


Cruel Twist of Fate, A

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-01
Updated: 2003-10-01
Packaged: 2019-04-27 06:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14419935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: A simple bicycle ride leads to an embarrassing injury





	Cruel Twist of Fate, A

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

A Cruel Twist of Fate

## A Cruel Twist of Fate

### by Satchie
    
    
    TITLE:           A Cruel Twist of Fate
    AUTHOR:          Satchie
    E-MAIL ADDRESS:  
    CATEGORY:        MT/Humor
    RATING:          PG-13 (for language)
    SPOILERS:        Season seven references
    SUMMARY:         A simple bicycle ride leads to an embarrassing injury.
    FEEDBACK:        Feed the need.
    THANKS TO:       Lisa for the fabulous beta, and to the usual suspects at Mulder's Refuge for not having me committed.  Yet.
    DISCLAIMER:      Yes, we all know these characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and Fox.  I keep borrowing them because I'm a seriously sick puppy.
    

* * *

Empty beer cans and a box containing half a pepperoni pizza littered the coffee table. Mulder dozed on the couch while contentedly clutching the remote control against his chest as if it was a high-tech teddy bear. Bizarre images of genetically spliced laboratory mice disturbed his light slumber. 

"Gee...Brain, what do you want to do tonight?" a squeaky voice implored. 

An irritated reply swiftly followed. "The same thing we do every night, Pinky, TRY TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD!" 

The last statement heightened Mulder's level of awareness. Was the Consortium developing a new sinister experiment? Instinctively, his grip on the technological security blanket tightened. Whimsical hypnotic music abruptly escalated into a deafening roar. 

"They're Pinky and the Brain. Yes, Pinky and the Brain. Their twilight campaign is easy to explain. To prove their mousey worth, they'll overthrow the Earth. They're dinky. They're Pinky and the Brain, Brain, Brain, Brain, Brain, Brain, Brain, Brain...NARF!" 

Now fully alert, Mulder frantically fumbled for the volume control. Once the noise was reduced to an acceptable level and his heart rate had stabilized, he felt incredibly foolish to discover a Saturday morning cartoon was the source of the peculiar conversation that had invaded his waking thoughts. Blearily glancing at his watch, he silently cursed himself. Damn! He couldn't believe he slept through the Friday night creature feature, and he had really wanted to watch "The Day the Earth Stood Still" again. Resigned to his fate, Mulder turned off the television in disappointment. 

Contemplating the flat, grease-stained box, he wondered if the unrefrigerated leftovers were safe to consume. Hmm. Scully told him he shouldn't eat meat that had been left out more than two hours, but did cheese spoil? Since his well-renowned eidetic memory couldn't provide the elusive answer, Mulder removed the pepperoni with reckless abandon and shoved a cold slice of pizza into his mouth. Ahhhh, life was good. 

He lazily wandered to his cluttered desk beside the window. An ethereal glow bathed the street below, and the scene evoked memories of a favorite childhood television program. Mulder inwardly smiled as he recalled Mr. Rogers cheerfully singing, "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor. Won't you be mine? Could you be mine?" Ignoring the irresistible impulse to slip into a cardigan and sneakers, he considered his options. Running a few miles would be invigorating, but the activity seemed too mundane for such a picturesque day. He thoughtfully scanned the room for inspiration, until his gaze focused on the bicycle propped against the wall. Perfect. It looked like his recent impulse purchase was going to be a great idea after all. Pleased with his decision, Mulder wiped his fingers on the gray t-shirt, and headed toward the bedroom to change. 

* * *

Imbued with unbridled enthusiasm, Mulder eagerly pushed his bicycle onto the street. A gentle breeze caressed his face, and he briefly closed his eyes to savor the moment. Simultaneously relaxed and energized, Mulder mounted his bicycle and began pedaling. As he built up speed and momentum, the wind briskly whirled around him. Yes, the sun was shining and the birds were singing. All was right with the world. 

Without warning, the bicycle's front tire began to wobble precariously. Tightly gripping the hand brakes, Mulder steered toward the curb, totally oblivious to the oily puddle ahead of him. Upon contact with the slick substance, the vehicle skidded sideways and careened out of control before crashing into a parked car. Mulder was violently thrown forward and the bicycle bar slammed full force into his crotch. He uttered a primal, guttural scream before he descended into oblivion. 

* * *

Mulder awoke to the most excruciating pain he had ever experienced. He attempted to curl into a fetal position, but was forcibly restrained by muscular arms. 

"Sir, please lie back down." 

<What the hell?> Mulder wondered. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to open his eyes, and nearly wilted with relief. <Paramedics. Thank God! They have drugs. GOOD drugs!> He moaned pitifully. 

"No evidence of spinal injury, or obvious sign of head trauma," a deep voice murmured. 

The other man quietly answered, "Dick, the hospital said we can wait to perform a more thorough exam in the ambulance." 

"Good. I'd hate to subject him to additional humiliation in front of this crowd." Motioning to the gurney, he called out to his partner, "Peter, can you give me a hand?" 

<What? Dick? Peter? Is fate mocking me?>

Another raw, piercing cry escaped his throat, when the paramedics transferred him to the ambulance. Panting from the intense pain, Mulder desperately grabbed Peter's uniform shirt. "Hurts. Drugs?" 

Peter ruefully shook his head. "Sorry. You were unconscious for a while. The doc wants to make sure you don't have a concussion first." 

Overwhelmed by nausea, Mulder started gagging. 

"Roll him! He's going to be sick!" 

Dick hurriedly thrust an emesis basin in front of his miserable patient as the barely digested pizza spewed forth. Rubbing Mulder's back until the heaving stopped, he watched his partner deftly cut away the injured party's sweat pants and boxers with bandage scissors. 

Wincing in sympathy, Peter inspected the damage to the injured anatomy. "Uh, the left testicle is extremely swollen and red. I'll ice it down while you start the IV." 

Setting the basin aside, the dark-haired paramedic set up the appropriate paraphernalia. He applied a tourniquet above Mulder's elbow, and efficiently swabbed the arm with an alcohol pad. "Okay, buddy. You're going to feel a little prick." Too miserable and preoccupied with other matters, his patient barely noticed when the needle penetrated the skin. 

Shocked by the dramatic temperature change to his genitals, Mulder gasped. Was he now going to be subjected to another assault to his dignity, and develop frostbite? Could this day possibly get any worse? Black spots obscured his vision, and he succumbed to another wretched bout of vomiting. His energy spent, Mulder mercifully passed out. 

* * *

He awoke to the organized chaos of the emergency room. An imposing figure barked orders for lab work and x-rays, while he checked Mulder's pupils and neuro responses. "I don't think he has a concussion. I suspect the syncopal episodes are pain related." 

Grunting in affirmation, Mulder croaked, "Pain meds?" 

The trauma physician rested his hand on his distressed patient's thigh. "Welcome back. I'm Dr. Sacks. I need to do a quick exam so we'll know what we're dealing with. Okay?" 

"Paid meds now?" 

"Not yet. Sorry. But I can give you something for the nausea." 

Mulder mutely nodded his assent. 

Dr. Sacks motioned to the male nurse. "Rocky, let's give him 5 mg. of Compazine IV." He lifted the sheet and began to palpate the affected area, but his efforts were hindered by Mulder's reflexive guarding. 

"No, no! Stop!" 

Undeterred, Dr. Sacks elevated the scrotum, noting Mulder was still in considerable pain. He then stroked the inner thigh in a downward direction, but there was no discernable reaction, aside from his patient's heart-wrenching screams. 

Rocky quickly emptied the contents of the syringe into the IV port, while Dr. Sacks covered Mulder with the threadbare sheet. He softly addressed the nurse. "Page urology STAT and have an OR on standby." 

<Operating Room?> Mulder's voice tremulously rose about an octave. "Surgery?" 

"Possibly. We've paged a specialist. He should be here momentarily." 

"Pain meds?" Mulder hissed between clenched teeth. 

"Soon," Dr. Sacks promised. "A urologist has to evaluate you first. Narcotics can mask important findings." 

"That's the idea!" he protested. 

An eternity passed, before a man in a white coat entered the treatment room. Dr. Sacks briefed the new arrival. "Mr. Mulder sustained blunt trauma to the left testicle, as the result of a bicycle accident, less than an hour ago. I performed a cursory exam..." 

<Cursory? You bet! I was swearing my head off!>

"...he's suffering..." 

<No shit, Sherlock!>

"...from significant edema and erythema of the testicle, as well as blood in his urine. Prehn's sign is negative, and there's an absence of a cremasteric reflex." 

The urologist grimaced knowingly. "Testicular torsion." Shifting his attention to his patient, he spoke in a soothing cadence. "Mr. Mulder, I'm Dr. Jones, and I've been consulted about your problem. Based on your symptoms and lab work, I'm reasonably confident of the diagnosis, but I need to examine you myself." 

Mulder stared incredulously at the name embroidered on the doctor's coat: C.O. Jones, M.D. It was official. He was in Hell. 

Dr. Jones repeated most of the same tests inflicted earlier, while Mulder repeated most of the same obscenities. Satisfied with his findings, the specialist snapped the gurney's railing back into place. Furiously scribbling orders in the chart, Dr. Jones explained, "You have a condition called testicular torsion, which is a surgical emergency. The blood flow to your left testicle has been compromised, so adequate circulation has to be restored as soon as possible. Before we take you upstairs, I'm going to try to untwist everything back into place." 

Horrified at the prospect, Mulder stammered, "Here? Now? Can't this wait until I'm in surgery?" 

"If the blood flow is interrupted for too long, it may not be possible to save the testicle." 

"You mean you might have to remove it?" 

"That's correct. Depending on the severity of the damage, occasionally it's necessary to perform a bilateral orchidectomy." 

"Bilateral...both of them?!" 

"Possibly," Dr. Jones replied truthfully. 

Draping his arm across his eyes, Mulder reluctantly gave his consent. "You'll use a local anesthetic, right?" 

"Unfortunately, no. Pain relief is an indicator of a successful detorsion. However, you should be sufficiently sedated to tolerate the procedure." 

<Should be?>

A few minutes later Rocky returned with the long-awaited morphine, and Mulder profusely thanked a deity whose existence he doubted. The throbbing ache between his legs slowly subsided, and he drifted into a twilight state of consciousness. Dr. Jones roused him after a short-lived reprieve from his agony. 

"Mr. Mulder? We're about to start." 

<That sounds ominous.>

Firmly grasping his patient's left testicle with his right thumb and forefinger, Dr. Jones attempted to rotate it outward. Even with morphine, the pain was unbearable. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Acting out of self-preservation, Mulder tried to sit up, determined to choke the living daylights out of his tormentor. Strong arms pushed him back down onto the gurney. 

"It's okay," Rocky assured him. "It's almost over." 

<Almost?>

The gruesome process began anew. "Stop, stop!" Mulder begged. Amazingly, his plea was immediately answered, and his ordeal blessedly ceased. Removing the latex gloves, Dr. Jones said, "The swelling is too extensive to continue. This will have to wait until you're under general anesthesia." 

<Yessssssssss!>

"We'll give you a bit more morphine before we move you upstairs. I'll see you in the OR." 

Dr. Sacks casually propped his elbows on the railing. "Do you have any next-of-kin I should notify?" 

Mulder froze. Normally he'd ask the hospital to contact Scully, but this was a unique situation. What if she made decisions regarding his medical care based on, um, facts and sound judgment? Would she factor his emotional health into the equation, and insist his masculinity be preserved at all costs? One possibility crossed his tortured mind. 

"Yeah," he answered sadly. "Call my Uncle Frohike." 

* * *

In a secluded area of the surgical waiting room, the Lone Gunmen discussed Mulder's plight in hushed tones. Although he had suffered from far more serious injuries and illnesses over the years, this vigil was unbelievably different. It was personal. Very personal. As fellow members of the male species, they shared certain universal fears, and emasculation ranked at the top of the list. 

Langly absently stirred his cup of hideously bitter hospital coffee. "Oh man, this whole thing sucks." 

"Yeah," Byers agreed. "It's hard to even think about it." 

Rubbing his unshaven face, Frohike said, "I never imagined something like this could happen. Well, except for last week, when Scully threatened to castrate him for ditching her, and going to Texas to see the Marfa lights. When is he ever going to learn?" 

The older man leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "You know what's weird? Mulder said he was more worried, that his package was going to atrophy from lack of use!" 

"Is that possible?" Langly asked nervously. 

"I don't think so," Byers opined. "At least, I hope not." 

All three men were suddenly compelled to cross their legs, and surreptitiously rest their hands in a strategic location. They were considering their futures, when a scrub-suited figure exited the surgical suite. 

Frohike was the first to notice the physician's arrival. "That's Dr. Johnson!" 

"It's Jones, you idiot." 

Byers glared at his squabbling colleagues, and struggled to find his voice as the surgeon approached them. "Dr. Jones, how is he?" 

"The surgery went well. He should be fine." 

"Um, did you have to remove his..." Frohike couldn't bear to complete the sentence. His expression revealed the depth of his anguish. 

Dr. Jones removed the paper surgical cap, and crossed his arms across his chest. "No. In most cases, the testicle can be salvaged, if treatment is rendered within six hours after the onset of symptoms." 

Motioning toward the notoriously uncomfortable plastic chairs, Byers inquired, "What exactly happened? We're a bit fuzzy on the details." 

The urologist pulled up a chair, and faced the unlikely trio. "Mr. Mulder sustained blunt trauma to the left testicle during a bicycle accident. An injury to the scrotum may set off muscle spasms, which cause the testicle to twist. When this occurs, the blood vessels within the spermatic cord also twist, which blocks the flow of blood. If circulation is not restored, tissue death ensues and surgical removal is indicated." 

Langly swallowed convulsively. "Could this happen to anyone who gets smacked in the..." He couldn't bring himself to say the word either. 

"No. Testicular torsion frequently occurs when the epididymis is not properly attached to the wall of the scrotum. Since this abnormality is usually present bilaterally, we also sutured the healthy testicle in place as a preventive measure." 

Setting his empty Mountain Dew can on a vacant chair, Frohike apprehensively probed, "But he's going to be okay, right?" 

"His prognosis is favorable, barring any further unforeseen complications," Dr. Jones informed them. 

"Complications?" 

"There's always the risk of a post-operative infection, so we have him on prophylactic antibiotics. In rare cases, the testicle atrophies even after the problem has been corrected." Bemusedly noting the men's discomfort, he added, "Obviously Mr. Mulder is going to be in a lot of pain when the anesthesia wears off. We'll keep him heavily sedated for the next day or so." 

They were all profoundly thankful their friend's suffering would be alleviated. Vigorously shaking the doctor's hand, they murmured their appreciation. 

Watching the surgeon depart, Byers anxiously mused, "I wonder how long we're going to be able to hide this from Scully?" 

* * *

Drifting on a cloud of morphine, Mulder gradually awakened to the typical sounds and smells of a hospital. Relieved the pain had abated to a tolerable level, he cautiously turned onto his right side. He sensed a light pressure making circular motions on his hand unmarred by the IV. The action was comforting and familiar. Scully usually massaged his hand like that when he was sick or injured. 

Shit! Reluctantly opening his eyes, his suspicions were confirmed. Yep. His long-suffering partner was again seated in her customary place at his side. This was exactly what he was hoping to avoid. 

Scully graced him with a dazzling smile. "Hey. Sounds like you had an interesting weekend." 

"Yeah," he snorted. "I nearly had myself a ball." A nagging question haunted him, as he gratefully accepted a spoonful of ice chips. "How did you know I was here?" 

"When you didn't report to work this morning, I went to your apartment. Your neighbor across the hall said you were rolling your bicycle down the hallway, the last time she saw you. Knowing your propensity for accidents, I started calling area hospitals." 

"You make it sound like a metaphysical certainty," he whined. 

"Your nurse said you were brought in Saturday morning." Brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, Scully continued. "I understand you specifically told them not to contact me. What was that all about?" 

"It's a guy thing. I, thought...uh, well...it seemed like a good idea at the time." 

"That's absurd!" she sputtered. "For crying out loud, I'm a doctor! Don't you trust me? Do you honestly think I'd make medical decisions for you that aren't in your best interests? What were you possibly thinking?" 

Squirming awkwardly, he confessed, "Scully, it's more of a matter of _where_ I was thinking. I was relying on a different set of brains at the time." 

"Mulder, that's nuts! There's nothing to be embarrassed about." 

"Oh yeah? How many times has this happened to you?" Immediately chagrined at his outburst, he tenderly squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry. You know I trust you. Rational thought simply abandoned me under the circumstances." 

Her tone softened. "What exactly _did_ happen?" 

"I believe the technical traffic term is a 'moving violation'. I was moving and was savagely violated by my bicycle. Why in the hell do men's bicycles have that stupid bar there anyway?" he grumbled. "Fortunately I have my FBI career to fall back on. I was concerned my income from sperm donations was going to be cut in half." 

"Mulder, you're crazy," Scully teased. "But then again, I always knew you were twisted." 

"WAS twisted," he corrected mischievously. 

She laughed and playfully swatted his arm. Mulder visibly relaxed knowing all was forgiven. 

"Oh, I almost forgot." She hastily rummaged through a canvas bag. "I brought you a surprise." 

"Scully, I appreciate the gesture, but I'm not up to reading the latest edition of 'The Adult Video News'." 

"Have no fear. I brought you some tabloids and science fiction magazines to keep you company. I'm sure the research will yield an interesting 302." 

Mulder distractedly tossed them on his bedside table. "Cool. Thanks." 

His apparent apathy alarmed her. "What's the matter?" 

Sounding pensive, Mulder complained, "I may be paranoid, but I'm convinced the universe is out to get me. During the past year, I've been confined to a neuro-psych ward after being exposed to an alien artifact, kidnapped by that black-lunged son-of-bitch with my mother's assistance, underwent experimental brain surgery at the DOD, attacked by the undead, shot after a freak chain reaction of events, bitten by a bunch of snakes, trapped in a virtual reality game and had my ass kicked by a hot cyber-babe, beaten and nearly drowned by a seemingly perfect housewife, infected by tobacco beetles and busted in the chops during a free-for-all. To top it all off, I was nearly robbed of the family jewels." He sighed in exasperation. "Why do these things always happen to me?" 

Scully grinned evilly. "I guess you're the victim of a vicious cycle." 

finis 

Dialogue quotes from:  
The animated television series "Steven Spielberg Presents Pinky and the Brain" 

Music quotes from:  
"Won't You Be My Neighbor?" Lyrics by Fred M. Rogers  
"Theme Song to Steven Spielberg Presents Pinky and the Brain" Music by Richard Stone. Lyrics by Tom Ruegger.   
  


#### If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Satchie


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